


Coping Mechanisms

by Winnie_Chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Suicidal Sam, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2354639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnie_Chester/pseuds/Winnie_Chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knows he has to stay alive to keep Dean alive, but every day that gets a little bit harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coping Mechanisms

Sam was older than he ever thought he’d be. Which was not something normal, healthy men in their twenties often thought. But Sam had been pulled back from death enough in his job to recognize he wasn’t even vaguely normal. And he’d spent enough of his teens getting acquainted recreationally with the taste of gun oil and the feel of the metal against his teeth to know he wasn’t healthy, either. 

But Sam was glad to be alive. Kinda. 

Tonight, anyway.

Sam was glad because tonight Dean had needed him and he'd been there. They had been taking out a vampire nest, which was always a little nasty but had quickly gotten a lot nasty and then gone sideways, and Sam had nearly had to carry Dean back to the car. And he'd put two dozen stitches in him once he'd hauled him into the motel room. So for tonight, fine, Sam was glad to be alive. 

Which isn’t to say that, if Sam could figure out a way to keep his brother breathing without having to physically oversee it himself, he wouldn’t reevaluate. But he couldn't, so Sam had to keep trying to stay alive. 

The problem was, Sam hadn't built his defenses for longevity. 

Running away, college, those had been long term plans. Solutions to the darkness in him that didn’t end up with Dean destroyed, or Sam dead.

But then the fire, then Jessica, and Sam had thought _Fuck it. With this job, with this life, how much longer could I possibly have to fight this?_ If going with Dean the first time had been a relapse, then getting back in the Impala after the fire was meant as a slow motion suicide attempt. It had been impulsive and stupid and if he hadn't been so fucking wrecked he'd have thought it through. He’d have realized that there was nothing Dean wouldn't do to keep him alive. He'd have known he was in for the long haul. 

The thing was, it was almost unbearable--he wouldn’t have left the first time if it hadn’t been.

At first, Sam had thought that maybe he’d change. Maybe it was hormones, or their fucked up life, maybe if he’d just once been given a chance to see other teenagers he wouldn’t spend so much time obsessing about his big brother. He wouldn’t thrill when Dean propped his feet in his lap, or squeezed by him in a too small motel kitchenette. He wouldn’t try so hard to make Dean laugh, or spend so much time watching him work on his car. Just hero worship, he’d thought. At worst, a sick, screwed up crush, but just a crush. Kid stuff. It would pass.

He’d been wrong. As he got older it only got worse. He’d started having these— thoughts. He’d be in A.P Government and instead of concentrating on the electoral college he’d start imagining his brother throwing him up against a wall, ripping his shirt off. He’d imagine what his mouth would taste like — beer, and faintly of their peppermint toothpaste— and how the callouses on his brother’s hands would feel shoved down his pants, stroking him. Sam would be so hard so immediately that he couldn’t even get up to go to the bathroom to take care of it. He’d just sit at his desk, squirming, trying to force the images aside. 

And his dreams— his dreams were vivid. Sam would dream about himself pinned under his brother’s weight while Dean ran his tongue down Sam’s chest, stopping to bite his nipples and plant kisses on his thighs. He’d run his fingers through Sam’s hair and suck on his earlobes. Sam wouldn’t be able to stand it, and he’d squirm and beg and eventually Dean would laugh and give in. He’d take Sam in his mouth and Sam would wake up gasping, coming.

And the dream would fade and he’d realize he’d just had a wet dream about his brother— his brother who had practically raised him-- who was sleeping ten feet away. He’d realize how fucking sick and perverted he was, how deeply twisted his soul must be and he’d slip outside to throw up or cry where Dean couldn’t hear him. 

It got worse until Sam dreaded sleep, until he could barely look at Dean. Until he’d taken to bringing his gun outside, too. He realized it would never get better, he would never get better. 

He’d known that leaving Dean would do almost as much damage to his brother as finding Sam dead. But doing not quite as much damage was the best option he had, so he turned eighteen, got accepted into college, and took off. 

But he was back, and it was happening again. 

Almost immediately he’d started catching himself staring at his brother’s mouth as he drank lazily from a beer bottle, or being overly aware of Dean’s hand when he rested it on his shoulder to read something on the laptop. 

Dean was tactile, always had been— messing up Sam’s hair, punching him in the arm or hip checking him on the way out the door. It was one of the many ways he’d developed to remind Sam he cared about him without having to say the words very often. Like making a special stop to get Sam a “stupid, chick coffee” from Starbucks, or pretending he really wanted to stop driving and turn in early when he thought Sam might be getting sick. 

It was torture. 

Sam was sick. Sam was very very sick, and it was nothing diner chicken noodle soup and three nights in a row of eight hours of shut eye could fix. 

If he’d realized what he was getting himself into, if he’d known how long he’d have to live with this constant reminder of what a sick, perverted freak he was— but no. He’d made a bad choice, and now he was stuck living with it. It was live or destroy both of them. 

Because his other option was to ruin everything and Sam couldn’t endure that, either. 

These were the coping mechanisms Sam had tried, in increasing order of desperation, to keep from telling Dean, to keep from killing himself:

1\. Cataloging all of Dean’s flaws. None of which would ever outweigh his wit and strength and kindness.

2\. Running. Running until he was so physically exhausted he couldn’t even think. He’d yet to find that distance.

3\. Working. Working tirelessly and with such dedication that his mind couldn’t manage to dream. This worked, for a while, but the downside was that it meant even more contact with his brother when he was at his best. It was impossible to watch Dean work a case and fight the good fight without falling for him even harder. Dean was a thing of beauty even when he was sprawled on dirty carpet watching a bad movie, and so he was extraordinary, breathtaking, hold a gun, saving people.

4\. Picking fights with his brother. Which never made Sam feel better and only served to drag Dean into his misery, too. 

5\. Drinking. Which Sam quickly found lowered his inhibitions much more quickly than it wiped his mind, making the thin line he was walking even more difficult. 

6\. Fucking sandy-haired, green-eyed strangers in bar bathrooms. Which was joyless and mechanical and only served as a stark reminder of what he couldn’t have. 

7\. Letting sandy-haired, green-eyed strangers fuck him, savagely, in bar bathrooms. Which wasn’t much better, but had the added benefit of pain, which at least made Sam feel something. 

8\. Picking physical fights with his brother. It was difficult and very very rare, but the only time he actually felt really okay with their relationship was when his brother punched him in the face, which was almost on the same level of fucked up as the whole incestious desires thing.

Sam loved his brother, and it was utterly destroying him. He couldn’t face himself in a mirror without being overcome with revulsion. Sam didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how he would face another day, let alone another year, hating himself this much. But he knew he had to. 

He was white knuckling it, and he had been for longer than he’d thought possible. 

Sam was older than he ever _wanted_ to be.


End file.
